The Burdens of Heroism
by LaceyBird
Summary: A little piece based just after E2. Dawes and Capt. James, of course. Enjoy! R R!


**AN: Here's a piece I typed out whilst I had an hour to myself (I love toddler naptime! Haha.)**

 **Its an unbeta'd first draft, so please excuse any spelling/grammar mistakes etc.**

 **Based after e2 (?) during the evening of the day Smurf got shot.**

 **Please feel free to review – because I love reading them!**

 **Enjoy!**

 **Lacey.**

* * *

 **The Burdens of Heroism**

 _'A hero is an ordinary individual who finds the strength to persevere and endure in spite of overwhelming obstacles.' -Christopher Reeve_

The white, styrofoam cup descends from above, coming over her head before being placed down beside her. She startles; the motion dragging her from the depths of a haunting daydream to a bare reality, where she's sitting cross-legged on the cool, hard floor, surrounded by medical stock forms, unused packages of sterile supplies and the discarded wrappers she'd emptied from her pack not so long ago.

Dawes peers over the rim of the cup and is met with a murky, grey-brown, steaming liquid that reminds her of the River Thames on a cold day. She looks up, gaze locking with his, and if she's surprised to see her Commanding Officer standing beside the small, square stainless steel table next to the collapsible gurney she'd been leaning against, she doesn't let it show.

"It's the camps' finest brand." He nods to the brew, and Molly cocks an eyebrow.

"Asda Smart Price, then," she scoffs, unimpressed. Captain James' mouth slides into a subtle smirk, eyes creasing softly at the corners, as a barely-there breeze filters through the open mesh window, wafting the understated aroma of cheap coffee and catchpenny tea in her direction. "It's a bit late for a cup of caffeine, ain't it?"

Captain James shrugs his right shoulder casually, and takes a small sip from the blue _Thunderbirds_ mug in his hand. "You're not sleeping anyway."

Her mouth twitches a little, because he's right. It's only a little after ten, but the rest of the section had turned in for the night almost an hour ago, both physically and mentally exhausted from the day's patrols. Her gaze drops, attention returning to the clipboard balanced on her folded knee, eyes scanning the list of supplies without really reading them, and she wonders if Smurf has settled in well at the hospital, or if he's being plagued by the memories of being shot and almost bleeding out beneath Dawes' fist, too.

"Yeah, well," she says, deflecting from the images flashing through her mind – stark skin, pale lips, rolling eyes. _Red._ "If I drink that, ain't no hope in Hell of me catchin' any shut-eye tonight." She refrains from looking at him as she turns down the poorly brewed cuppa he'd made for her. "Thanks, though," she adds, because she doesn't want to sound too ungrateful, as her biro scratches over paper, ticking boxes and scrawling her initials here and there. A few moments of heavy silence pass, and though she keeps her focus trained on the task at hand, she can feel his eyes on her, watching.

"You should get some rest, Dawes," he eventually says, a little roughly, almost as a dismissal, though not quite, like he's holding back. "You took quite the pounding today."

It's not like she needs the reminder. She'd been lucky to avoid sustaining any major trauma from the impact of the blast, to still have both legs firmly attached at the knees, and hips, but that doesn't mean that her ribs aren't throbbing with each inhale of gritty air, that her brain isn't pressing against skull, that she isn't on the edge of a concussion.

Her pen stills and she glances up at him. He's watching her intently, with a furrowed brow, as he holds his mug – no doubt a personal one – up near his mouth, though not quite close enough to touch skin. She shifts a little, the hard floor unforgiving to her tired spine, and fights the wince as her body aches, protests.

"I'm fine," she lies, badly, but she hopes it's enough to convince him to stop watching her as if she's about to fall apart. It's his turn to cock an eyebrow, the disbelief softening the harsh edges of his face.

"Really?"

Molly swallows. She's caught between wanting to tell the truth and the need to prove she's just as tough as any of the male soldiers in Two Section. After all, it only took a near fatal incident for them to finally stop looking at her as the blood-shy medic that'll cost them their lives, and to start seeing her as one of them; an asset to their tour.

"It's getting late, Sir," she deflects, again. "I don't need a babysitter, so if you wanna turn in -"

"I'm the Captain, Dawes," he cuts her off smoothly. "I don't retire until I know that my men – and women – are safely tucked up in their pits."

"I just need to finish up here-"

"Okay. So how can I help?" Though it's a simple, friendly question, there's a hard edge to his tone that suggests it's more of a command than a generous offer. Dawes suppresses a sigh, her teeth worrying her bottom lip, as she fights to hide the agitation at the insistence on Captain James' face, because she'd been banking on the alone time – something that doesn't come often in the 'Stan – so she can sit and stew in her achiness alone, try and push the day's events to the back of her exhausted mind.

Even so, she nods to the items spread out around her. "Know how to pack a bag?"

He almost smirks, looks a little bemused at her subtle scepticism, as he puts his almost empty mug down on the steel table before moving to sit on the floor next to Dawes, their knees brushing lightly as he folds long legs, his weight shifting the gurney as he leans back to rest against it too, despite the locked wheels.

Molly glances down at her list again, before picking up the first two items on the sheet and holding them out for Captain James to take. He does, without question, before stuffing them into the bottom of the large, khaki coloured medic pack, and she checks them off.

The settle quickly into a pattern, and work together in a comfortable silence, the only noises are of packets crunching and bags rustling, of pen nib scrawling on paper, and the occasional footfalls of working soldiers on the night shift, patrolling the FOB. In what feels like a few short moments later, though when she checks the time she's surprised to see over an hour has passed, every box has been ticked and initialled, the page dated and signed at the bottom, and Captain James fastens the last zip on the pack.

"Many hands make light work," he says.

"Yeah, cheers for helpin', Sir," Dawes says, before moving to unfold her legs. Her body freezes, tense, and she fails to conceal the hiss that escapes between clenched teeth, to hide the pain that narrows her eyes and pulls at plucked brows. The stagnant numbness that had set into her calves and thighs quickly recedes, and the bone-deep ache returns, seizing muscles and making her joints feel as if they've aged years.

"Hey," he says, her pain not escaping him. He pushes onto his feet, crouching before her, hands poised as if ready to catch her, or hold her, or _something_. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," she replies, too quickly, and she forces a smile onto her mouth as her eyes lift to lock with his. "Just been sittin' on my arse too long."

"Maybe we should get you back to Bastion," Captain James says thoughtfully. "Have you checked over again."

"Honestly, Boss, I'm fine," she insists, and she moves purposefully, despite the resistance; forcing her legs to straighten, before getting to her feet, too. One of his large, calloused hands finds its way to her elbow as she stands up, gently guiding her, supporting her, and when he drops it away, she only teeters slightly. "See, I'm all right."

He eyes her suspiciously. "I'm not entirely convinced, Dawes."

"Respectfully, Sir, I'm the medic here," she reminds him, almost cheekily, as she rolls her shoulders a little. She wonders, silently, if there is any part of her body that doesn't feel as if it's had an argument with a steam roller today. "I'd be more concerned if I didn't feel a bit shit. I did almost lose my leg today." She says as she turns away from him and places the clipboard and pen on the portable stretcher, because the confession almost feels like a vulnerability.

"You almost _died_ today," he corrects her, folding his arms over his chest, tucking his hands away. "Twice, actually."

Molly turns back to him, rolling her eyes. "Hardly."

"Not only did you risk your life by crawling through that minefield, you also left yourself completely open to a sniper whilst you were dangling on that winch." He shifts on his feet, and his face darkens slightly. "God, if that had happened..." he trails off as a hand reaches up to rake through already dishevelled hair, and there's a flicker of softness in his eyes that Molly hasn't seen before.

"I know you said not to go up, but -"

"You couldn't hear me," he reminds her. "So it's all moot." He holds her stare, and there's something different about him tonight, standing here with her; it's as if he's relaxed, friendly, loose. The corner of his mouth pulls, and she gets the hint. _Of course_ she hadn't heard him.

"Right," she nods, scratching at her cheek and almost catching the fresh graze there. She clears her throat gently. "I wanna 'ave a quick one to one with the lads tomorrow mornin', just to check they're straight in the nut after today. It shouldn't take long."

"Of course," Captain James nods. "Any concerns?"

"Nah, they're a tough bunch. But be'er safe than sorry."

"And who's checking up on you?" he asks, and his brow slips again, just slightly. Molly shrugs her shoulders casually as she reaches for the refreshed pack, the weight irritating sore muscles. Captain James moves towards her, but seems to think better of it and takes a step back, again.

"Apparently, you," she says over her shoulder as she moves through the tent, exiting the treatment bay so she can toss the bag at the foot of the canvas cot she's been occupying more often then the bed allocated in the sleeping quarters. "Not that I need it."

"Really? So you're completely impervious to the trauma of today?"

"Impervy- _what_?" She turns to face him, her nose slightly scrunched as she frowns, bewildered, though there's a subtle hint of humour on her face, a twinkle in her eye. Captain James holds back a chuckle, but he's smiling softly, and Molly decides it's something she wants to see more of.

"How are you dealing?" he rephrases, an index finger tapping at his temple. "Up here."

His eyes hold hers and under the warm glow of the large lamp, she can see the caramel and honey highlights twisting through the chocolate depths of his irises. She swallows as her skin prickles, the weights of his gaze calling hairs to stand on end, and she feels uneasy in a way she's not uncomfortable with.

"Uh," she clears her throat, tearing her eyes from his. She heads back into the treatment bay, and she can hear his footfalls following after her and halting at the curtained entrance. "Yeah, I'm -"

"If you say you're 'fine', I'm going to write you up for insubordination for the thing you _didn't_ hear me say," he interrupts. She tosses a glare at him as she reaches for the tall, cylinder tub containing the alcohol wipes she uses to clean down the area; a daily habit that's almost become and obsession. He's watching her again, as he blocks her only exit, and she gets the impression that though his eyes are glassy and rimmed red, that his skin is paling and there are darkening shadows under his eyes, he's not going to let it go until he's satisfied she's not going to break down, fall apart. At almost twelve am, it's not exactly the ideal time for her to challenge his tenacity.

Dawes inhales deeply, as she contemplates standing here, before her superior officer, and confronting everything she'd spent the majority of the evening boxing up and shoving to the back of her mind. But it's beyond her control, because it's the consideration of the confrontation that leads to something slipping inside of her; slowly at first, but then all at once.

It's all there again, leaking from it's containment, rushing to the forefront of her mind, pressing on her chest, weighing on her shoulders, knotting her stomach; terror and regret, panic and betrayal; her shattering hopes and dreams, her dark, twisty reality. She takes another breath, a shaky one, as she tries to keep it all in, to piece back together the internal wall that's crumbled far too easily.

Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Captain James take a step towards her, as if he knows, can see her falling apart inside, but he keeps his distance.

She swallows, an attempt to moisten a drying throat, and when she's sure that her voice will hold up, wont betray her, she turns back to face him.

"I almost died today," she admits, quietly. "I was actually blown up, and my best mate got proper shot. I literally had Smurf's life in my 'ands, and I don't know why." She sees the Captain's face cloud with confusion at her statement. "I mean, I know _why._ I just don't know -" Dawes shakes her head, rubs at her pounding forehead with trembling fingers. "I had this stupid idea that we were gonna come 'ere and make a difference; help people; be heroes," she points to the mesh window, to the world beyond the thick compound walls. "But we ain't. They don't even want us 'ere. People are getting shot, and blown up, and dying, but for what?They ain't gonna change their way of livin'. We're supposed to be here so kids can go to school, but now, instead of just the boys goin', none of 'em are. I literally can't make sense of it."

"You don't need to," Captain James says. "We have our orders, and we follow them. The second we start questioning our superiors, everything starts to fall apart."

"I know," she sighs, frustrated. "It don't mean I have to like any of it."

" _'The true soldier fights not because he hates what is in front of him, but because he loves what is behind him.'_ "

Molly smiles a little. "Who said that?"

"I don't know," he admits, the ghost of laughter highlighting tired features. "But whoever it is, is right. We don't do this job because we _want_ to go to war, we do it because we have faith in our country, in our home, that we're doing the right thing. You've got to take a step back, look at the bigger picture; we've already changed the lives of hundreds, thousands, of civilians."

She nods, chewing the inside of her cheek, before asking, "Is that what you think? That we're the good guys here?"

"I have to," he shrugs, honestly. "What's the alternative?"

She ponders that, silently mulling it over, before finally nodding. "Guess you're right."

"Of course I am," he laughs. "You're a good soldier, Dawes. And a bloody good medic. You proved yourself today."

"Thanks, Sir," she says, almost awkwardly, because it's been so long since she had a genuine compliment from someone that she respects and looks up to.

"I mean it. I'm proud of you, Molly."

Molly's cheeks warm, and there's an unfamiliar fluttering in the pit of her stomach that doesn't make any sense to her. His gaze holds hers, and there's something different about the way he's looking at her, as if he's stripped back, laying himself bare before her. It's strange and exciting, and she's not sure if she's imagining it, or maybe she's just so damn tired she's reading things that aren't there. Or maybe the mine fragged her brain worse than she'd originally thought.

The moment of silence and unwavering eye contact stretches a little too long, and Captain James is the one to break it by clearing his throat and tearing his chocolate orbs from her, shifting back into professionalism.

"It's late, Dawes. You're excused from PT for the rest of the week, but you still need to get a decent night's rest." He says authoritatively, whilst making a point of looking at his watch, as he scratches at his jaw, nail over stubble.

"Yes, Boss," Molly says, and it's like the reminder brings the exhaustion to her, washing over her in waves, and she fails to suppress a yawn.

Captain James nods his head once. "Goodnight, Private." And then, after casting his gaze around the room quickly, he turns on his heel, back straight and shoulders square, and leaves her standing alone in the tent.

She smiles, despite the sore lacerations and the relentless throbbing behind her eyes, pounding against skull, for reasons she isn't sure she's willing, or able, to decipher. She shuffles slowly, because she's running low on energy, and despite feeling lighter after offloading everything she'd been trying to keep restrained inside, her limbs are slowly filling with lead, her body quickly grows heavier. She pauses at the door of the treatment bay, hand reaching for the switch to flick off the overhead light, and peers around the room one last time – mainly out of habit – to check it's been left tidy and clean, ready for the next day. Her eyes land on the forgotten _Thunderbirds_ mug and disposable cup, and she smiles, before shutting off the light, and heading for the canvas cot.

She falls asleep as soon as her head hits the pillow, and the nightmares stay away.


End file.
